


Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing 2019 - my drabbles

by RurouniHime



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AELDWS 2019, Community: inceptiversary, Don't copy to another site, M/M, POV Arthur, Short & Sweet, Shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: The series of shorts I wrote for Inceptiversary's AELDWS 2019, posted as the author reveals go up... until such a time as I get disqualified. O.oAll Arthur/Eames, all day, all night. As it should be.EDIT: Annnnnd I'm out! Alas.





	1. Futile

**Author's Note:**

> I am privileged to be a participant in this year's Inceptiversary Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing, a contest that pits 8 writers against each other week by week until there is only one left! 
> 
> Here are my entries. They go up on Tumblr anonymously until voting is over, after which the authors are revealed and we're allowed to post elsewhere. It's likely that none of these drabbles will be connected to each other. Rating, warnings, and tag list subject to change.
> 
> **Come play over at AELDWS (https://aeldws2019.tumblr.com/)! Read! Vote! Check out the rest of Inceptiversary (https://inceptiversary.tumblr.com/)! There's a TON going on. ^_^**

**WEEK 1  
Prompt: “Never. Give up.”  
Genre: None  
Word count: up to 500 words**

.

**Futile**

“I’m not discussing this with you. I have a plane to catch.”

“You’re a good liar, Arthur. Not as good as me.”

Arthur throws down his jacket. It’s a nice jacket, now wrinkled. “It was a job! A cover, Eames. It’s done.”

“That mean you’d never marry me for real?”

Arthur fists his hands and doesn’t think about staged kisses. Searching kisses. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Am I? Seems to me you were rather inclined toward the possibility.”

More so than he ever expected. “Never. Give up.”

Eames snorts, elegant inelegance. “Not a chance. You, my mercurial friend, do not know what’s good for you.”

Anger surges, almost pushing down the memories. “You don’t get to tell me what’s good for me.”

But Eames remains unmoved. Then he begins to pace, and Eames _on_ the move never bodes well for Arthur. It’s a distraction tactic. Knowing that matters about as much as Arthur expected it to.

“Just kiss me, Arthur. Not for a job this time, not because Cobb told you to. Really kiss me, and if you can look me in the eye after and tell me you don’t feel anything, anything at all, I’ll let it go and never come round your door again.”

Arthur opens his mouth futilely, stomach gone sour, hating Eames, because there are layers concerning why he can’t exactly _do_ that. What does Eames even mean? _Never_ never? Or never for work? He’s never even been around Arthur’s real door, and a stupid kiss won’t reveal the secrets of the universe. Half of dreamshare already says they argue like they’re sleeping together, Arthur spends forty percent of his off-job hours quashing those rumors, fucking _thankless,_ and besides, he couldn’t just look Eames in the eye and say... that. Because. 

“I’m not kissing you.” His face heats. “Again.”

Eames sighs. “Then, darling, you won’t mind if I take the initiative.”

Arthur’s heart rams into his ribs, but Eames takes his time, slows his approach. _Just leave already,_ Arthur pleads with himself, _if you’re truly stupid enough to do this, I won’t be responsible for what happens,_ and great, now Arthur’s having an internal liability crisis, and then Eames is right there.

They are of a height. Arthur should be taller. He swallows, straightening.

Eames’s hand trails down his arm and, light as a feather, cups his elbow. “Alright, Arthur?”

Deep. Low in his throat. His cologne teases Arthur’s nostrils and his fingers are warm. Arthur shivers.

It’s the tremor in Eames’ eyes that does it, just before he leans in. Not as certain of his welcome as he seems. That’s all it takes for Arthur’s balustrade to fold.

He _wants_ that trust. Not just Eames’ life, his safety, but his heart. He had it, for the space of one job, the weight of a ring around his finger, but the ring is gone, it wasn’t real, and he can still taste Eames’ mouth.

He wonders how different it will taste this time.

~fin~


	2. Equilibrium

**WEEK 2  
Prompt: Litmus test  
Genre: Canon  
Word count: between 300 and 400 words**

**.**

**Equilibrium**

Arthur’s mind can be a cold, razored place.

Today though, it is sun and shadow, immaculate towers scraping the heavens and pristine streets empty of cars. Eames’s shoes click on the asphalt and echo impishly behind him.

He smirks. He’s always liked the way Arthur jokes.

So tidy and severe in the waking world, Arthur's mind has playful crannies. Eames turns to the team as they mill about, sizing them up as they size up Arthur’s dream city. He snorts: Cobb doesn’t get the humour, nor will he, until he wraps his head around Arthur's definition of play. Cobb is about grand gestures; Arthur deals in subtle asides, criticisms often left unsaid but certainly thought, as loudly as a person can think. Eames has always heard plenty of what Arthur doesn’t say to him, and Arthur has _a lot_ to say. Nowadays, the game lies in his chances of drawing the words out of Arthur where everyone else can hear them. Arthur doesn’t let those prizes go easily.

Arthur binds himself in rigid skyscrapers, gridded streets, crisp vests with careful creases. He tucks his jokes behind him in closed palms. _Pick a hand._ He flashes them covertly to whomever may be looking.

Eames is always looking.

*

The game, Eames amends woefully, flat on the lush carpet with his wrists offered in penance, is actually less a gamble these days as it is a litmus test. “Security’s going to run you down hard.”

Arthur strips his cuff for him and homes the tube in one motion. He barely looks. “And I will lead them on a merry chase.”

Eames laughs, can’t help himself. “Just be back before the kick.”

Arthur will never wink, as such. But he looks at Eames sly-eyed, and the smile lies in the dip of his lashes, the tilt of his chin. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Still, Arthur's fingers trip over his wrist and circle once. His hand is cool; his thumb presses, very slightly, between the tendons where Eames's pulse beats.

 _Trust me,_ Eames hears. _I've got you._

They rail against each other in opposing heartbeats, Arthur's tart and acidic red to Eames's ambling base-blue, but together they return again and again—the cab, the warehouse, the floor of this hotel room—to the most breathtaking lilac.

 _Let this be the litmus test for us,_ Eames says without saying, and relaxes back.

~fin~


	3. Picky, Picky

**WEEK 3  
Prompt: Alight  
Genre: Fable  
Word count: exactly 300 words**

**.**

**Picky, Picky**

Right, climb up here, love. I’ve something special for you tonight.

Panther and Emu lived in a house with far too many toys. But they couldn’t just give them away; Panther told Emu to sort them properly first. _Panther_ liked _specificity._ So one night, Emu, exhausted from his long and trying day, dragged the old toys outside of the well-lit house and into the terrible dark to sort them. Before long, Panther came outside, too.

‘Mr. Emu,’ Panther said. ‘ _What_ are you doing?’

‘Putting the old toys in this green bin,’ Emu said.

Panther frowned. ‘That’s the wrong bin.’ 

‘Why, so it is,’ Emu marveled, and changed them round.

‘Well, now you have them in the brown trash can,’ Panther griped.

‘Do I?’ Emu wondered, then shrugged. ‘It’s the only bin big enough for all of them.’ 

‘Mr. Emu,’ growled Panther—he could be quite growly sometimes. ‘They don’t _go_ in the brown trash can. They go in the green and blue cans, so they can be taken away by the city.’

‘But this terrible dark!’ Emu cried. ‘I can’t see well out here! I’m a prey creature, I’m sure to be eaten! Brown, green, blue—can’t I just throw it all in one bin and have done?’

‘For Pete’s sake, Emu,’ snarled Panther, grabbing the toys away. ‘You’re ridiculous. I’ll do it myself. God, if you want something done right...’

So Panther stayed out in the terrible dark to put all the toys in the right bins, muttering to himself the whole time, while Emu skipped inside the house all alight to rest and read the book he got for his birthday.

The lesson, dear one, is that when you’re too picky, you end up outside sorting the recycling while your beloved daughter and exceedingly clever husband lounge around drinking cocoa.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm out. Too bad... Three rounds, though, that's not too shabby! Anyway, all done, enjoy!
> 
> A million thanks go to snottygrrl, my beta for these drabbles. Sno, you are a wonder and I lurve you.


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